


Galatea

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-13
Updated: 2006-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam handles an untenable situation. He is not a creator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Galatea

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006

**

Dean says, "Please," and his voice is so deep against the thin cotton of Sam's shirt that it's almost not a word, just a sound, rumbling ragged and familiar into his skin. 

"Dean," he whispers, and his voice lilts up, out of his control. His hands go lightly to the heated throat, cupping the angle of the jaw lolling against him. 

Dean, laid out on the bed, manages to look pale and flushed all at once, his skin paper thin and chalky white, blooming a hectic red across the arc of his cheekbones. Sam's almost afraid to touch his face for the blown out eyes, hollow, dark and wounded in his face. 

He looks like he's dying.

**

It starts when Dean picks at food he'd normally be inhaling, sweating slick and uncomfortable in his loose shirt. 

"Fuck off," he mumbles when Sam moves to steady him, words slow and gurgling. 

Sam watches him get paler and paler as the meal goes on, until even the waitress stops snapping her gum long enough for a curt inquiry.

"I'm fine," Dean tells his eggs. "Fine."

He crumples trying to get the Impala's door open. 

"I didn't faint, you bitch," he hisses later into Sam's neck, pouring sweat and worry into the sour sheets. 

Sam's sarcastic reply slides down his throat as he feels for the threading pulse. 

**

Sam watches his brother's throat work slowly, painfully, as if he's swallowed all his other words, only that jagged plea left hanging in the air. 

He leans into blindly into Sam's touch, like an animal seeking warmth, the rough skin of his cheek grazing a palm, and Sam watches, amazed, as the color floods back into Dean's skin at the simple brush, banishing the shocking white like wine flowing under thin marble. 

Dean's not quite moaning, something deeper and more ragged when he starts tearing at his own clothes, buttons snapping as his shirt parts. Moving, living skin twists out pale and thin. 

"Whoa," Sam starts, hand automatically clasping Dean's wrist, holding him back. Then Dean arches into the contact, eyes fluttering shut, hips moving obscenely against the sheets, the flush in his cheeks harsher still. He almost bucks off the bed when Sam lets go of his wrist, a wild noise snapping through the air, torn out of his throat.

**

It really starts with a botched job and an angry woman, not exactly unusual. 

When she smiles, Dean tenses like a wire next to Sam, painted bronze in the dark thickness of her room. 

"You will see," she tells them. 

** 

Sam leans up, one hand going to Dean's damp hair, the other splaying over his chest, bare now, pushing him back. He leans up and holds him down, gentle, like he would with a hurt animal. The same healthy color spreads beneath his hand, skin seeming to ripple subtly, flush with life and pulse. 

Sam can feel the wan, racing heartbeat steady under his palm, string together into the deep thrum he's used to, his brother little more than a living, twisting thing stitched together by Sam's clumsy fingers. He's suddenly terrified, like he's holding Dean's life, desperate and fragile, maybe too wild for him, too wild not to slip away.

Slowly, breaths shaking, he runs his hand down Dean's skin, fingers brushing a nipple so Dean arches up from the bed. He touches the delicate skin right under one armpit, because Dean was always ticklish there, circles the hollow of his throat, traces the line of each rib as Dean opens up his chest, digs his head back into the sheets.

And it's amazing, because he'd been a limp, fading thing just a second earlier, and now he's coming alive with each careful stroke. 

Now her words are crisp in his head. 

_He's going to wither away without you, boy._

The insistent heat between Dean's legs strains against his hip, splintered growls in his ear. He lets his hand drift lower, fingers sketching over the sharp slant of each hip, slipping lower under the elastic of the boxers, until Dean's wriggling out of them, bitten off little noises deep in his throat. 

When he patterns his fingers around the hardening cock, Dean snaps up, eyes wild, arms banding tense around Sam until he's dragged down, crushed against the struggling body. 

Dean presses his face into Sam's throat, no words this time, just the desperate dark edge to his moan and the heat of his too tight grip. He holds onto Sam like he's the last living thing in the world, pressing naked flesh to cloth, unaware or just indifferent to the barrier. 

He circles the base of Dean's cock until his brother's moaning into the crook of jaw and throat, hands clawing at his back. He holds Dean tight, tucks one hand behind his head, fingers threading through the soft damp hair, the other grazing the heavy weight of Dean's balls, reaching behind them with his fingers.

And Dean just opens up, mouth working soundlessly against the base of Sam's neck, warm lips and hot, damp breath on his skin. And God, Sam can feel the flutter of his lashes, soft and passing, right against his skin. 

Dean's legs spread almost unconsciously beneath him, like he breathes it, needs it, cock hard and bobbing against his belly. Sam runs his hand up one shaking thigh, traces the delicate crease there, right there, before returning to the waiting cock, fingers skating down its length and back until he's just circling the soft, crinkled skin behind it. 

He feels Dean bite his lip, mumble something that vibrates through his skin, his bones, not a word, because he's been robbed of those. It's from somewhere deeper, exploding from his throat to thread under his skin, skimming flush against Sam.

He's a furnace now, suddenly full of warmth _too much_ when he'd been frighteningly cool just moments ago. 

"Ok," says Sam, swallowing, "ok." 

Dean's hands against his back are almost painful, stronger now, grasping. When Sam pushes a finger past the ring of muscle, his balls tighten against Sam's palm, neck straining. 

He spills hot and sour with a groan that sounds like a plea, suddenly boneless. The air smells odd, rich with spice and sulfur, but Sam's caught by the sight of his brother sprawled across the bed, belly streaked with his own come.

He moves to touch Dean's sweat soaked hair with stained fingers, dips his head to the corner of the slack mouth.

"Dean," he says, and now it's barely a word either. "Dean." 

**

Dean stands like a statue in the middle of the room, and Sam can't look away from the straight line of his collarbone, gilded rich by the flickering light.

"What did you do?" 

It's hardly a question in his brother's set face, ancient rage there, sketched like stone. Sam's head swims with the smells of the room, too much, too heavy, spice and sulfur in his eyes.

She smiles.

**


End file.
